Stuff I Shall Never Finish
by Runaway Sun
Summary: Exactly as the title says. Feel free to contact me if you would like to adopt anything. There is some cool stuff in here if you would like to check it out, even if you aren't looking to write a story. If someone really wants me to, I may consider rewriting and finishing this stuff.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Golden Mist

**Author: **Runaway Sun

**Warnings: **None.

**Pairings: **None.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes On the Text: **This is not my best work. I have lost interest in this story. It will never be finished. Feel free to contact me if you would like to adopt this. Btw, this was originally five chapters. That's why its so long and probably won't completely makes sense.

* * *

The sound of hurried footsteps breached the quietude of the dimly lit hallway. The black marble tile that covered the floor, walls, and ceiling reflected the light cast by the sporadically placed lamps. A lithe figure could be seen moving swiftly through the corridor. It was a woman, small, whose stomach was swollen with child. Her hair fanned out behind her, catching the light that revealed its ruby shade. Green eyes, so focused on the door that was fast approaching, failed to notice the figure that followed her.

She continued on the long, narrow path that the passage made until she reached a door. The door was black, like its surroundings, and was incredibly narrow and tall. Any being that was both as tall and as narrow as door could not possibly be human. She shuddered to think what the door was made to fit. Steeling herself, she grasped the door handle and pulled. To her immense surprise, it opened. She let out a shriek of shock and promptly closed it again. She hadn't really expected it would open. It had been a last minute decision, a small hope to protect her baby who was one of two possible candidates to fulfill a prophecy as he was to be born sometime within the next two months. It was with her baby's wellbeing in mind that she opened the door once more and entered into the unknown room. A shadow slipped in only moment after, before the door had closed.

Barely fitting her bulky stomach through the entryway, she paused as she entered the room. To her knowledge, no one alive today could claim to have seen the inside of this room. Only rumors had been told about it. All that was known- and only within certain circles- about it was that somewhere, deep in the bowels of the Ministry, on the ninth floor in the realm of the Unspeakables, was a room. Referred to as the Locked Room, much as the name implied, it could not be opened. It had never been penetrated at all, as far as anyone knew.

Now two people had entered the domain. Lily, for that was the woman's name, and the unknown figure, stood alone in the room. Golden mist flowed effortlessly throughout the room, as if carried on unseen breezes. It calmed the woman's racing heartbeat and a smile formed on her formerly harried face. She felt… at peace. Her legs began to wobble, muscles letting her know that they were quite irritated for having to carry both her and her unborn child such an obscene distance and at such a tiresome pace. By the time she hit the floor, or rather, before the mist caught her, as the case was, she was already asleep.

* * *

He pushed his way after her, through the mist, determined not to lose sight of her. A flash of red hair. There she was… then gone again, obscured by mist. The mist had such an odd quality to it. It was more solid than water vapor and had an almost grainy texture. He tried to catch it between his fingertips and failed. It also made him feel calm, almost like he could fall asleep right here…

But, no. He had to remember his task. Find the woman. Prevent her from doing anything that might make it difficult for the Master to capture her child. The child who was either his Master's nemesis or _salvation_. A sneer crossed his face. How preposterous, that a mere child, born to a Mudblood and a blood traitor at that, could defeat, or even have any abilities to offer his Master. But there wasn't time for his musings. He had to find the girl. He swept imperiously around the room- or at least he hoped he did. He couldn't exactly see the walls, due to the unfortunate fog that hid both them and the Mudblood.

He wandered through the mist, carefully examining every inch of it for a flicker a color other than gold. There. He saw a green cloak, the same that the woman had been wearing. He stopped in front of the sleeping female and noticed a film of gold that was wrapped around her body, thickening by the moment. It was densest around her stomach, and seemed to be siphoning into the embryo within. He watched for a moment, wondering at the sight. Leaning down, he attempted to touch the bulge of the child, but found he could not. It was a golden crystal shell that safeguarded the woman. It protectively encased her entire body, most especially her womb.

Pulling his wand out, he aimed it at the comatose woman. "_Finite Incantatem_," he intoned. Nothing happened. He attempted the spell again and received the same result. "_Lumos_," he finally cried and when no light appeared at the tip of his wand, he gave up. Magic apparently did not work in the chamber. "Bloody fantastic," he moped to himself. Resigning himself, he sat cross-legged beside the sleeping figure. Soon he felt himself begin to succumb to the earlier feeling of serenity and his eyelids drooped. He eventually gave into, not blackness as he had expected, but pure gold.

* * *

Lily awoke to bliss. It was the pure and simple feeling of having had a wonderfully restful sleep that assaulted her senses. She sat up, noticing for the first time that she was in a familiar hallway within the Department of Mysteries. Suddenly, she gasped. She remembered going into the Locked Room and seeing the Golden Mist, as she mentally dubbed it, but that was it. She rubbed absently at her swollen stomach. Picking herself up off the cold marble, she stared at the oddly shaped door. Grasping the handle, she pulled. It didn't budge. Its secrets were hidden from her once more. Sighing, she turned and walked away, toward the door that hid the lift from sight. By the time she reached the end of the hallway, she was too far away to hear as the opened and the strange mist deposited another sleeping figure.

* * *

"Lily!"

She looked up as her name sounded. Her best friend, Alice Longbottom, hurtled toward her. "Where in Merlin's name have you _been_? James has had four squads of Aurors looking for you. He's been absolutely _frantic_. And you've almost gone and made me go into early labor." She clutched her own large stomach for emphasis. Lily gave her a quizzical glance. "I wasn't gone long. Maybe-" Here she paused for some mental math. She had left about one in the morning last night and it looked to be almost midday. "Maybe 10 hours at the most."

"It's been a week! James found you missing on Saturday. Its now Sunday, July 1!" Lily's face paled. "That's impossible," she murmured. "Obviously, its bloody well not, seeming as _you_ did it." The glare Alice sent her was frosty. "Now, where were you?"

"I can't tell you. I'm sorry, Alice; I really am. It has something to do with my job." She convinced herself it wasn't a lie. "Oh, you Unspeakables. Merlin's bathrobe, I can't imagine why anyone would want to do your job. You can't even complain about your day to your husband when you get home from work." Alice seemed to have accepted her answer. Lily gave a mental sigh of relief. "Well, you'd better go talk to James. He's going to have a mental breakdown soon, poor soul." She shot Lily a frosty look. "Alright. Is he in his office?"

"Yes, probably ranting to one of the recruits about how 'if they can't find one pregnant woman, how are they supposed to discover Dark Wizards?' or some such tripe."

"Okay, thanks. Take care. Both of you." Lily gestured at the unborn child within Alice and sent her a small smile. "We will. Look, I- I'm sorry. I was really worried. You and the baby need to take care too." Alice grabbed her small hand within her larger one. "We are. I promise." Lily replied, carefully extracting herself from the larger woman's hold.

* * *

She made her way up to the second level without any more confrontations. As she approached her husband's office, she could hear voices from within. Peeking through the window, she saw an old, wizened wizard sitting across from a forlorn-looking James Potter. As she approached the room, she was able to hear what was being said as the usual silencing wards were in tune with her magical signature.

"-afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you, my boy. I told Lily of it weeks ago, but I didn't quite trust you not to do something rash, knowing your temper. But I'm afraid now you should hear it." Here he paused, taking a deep breath, and wincing as though it cost him a great deal of pain to do so. "There has been a prophecy that could possibly involve your unborn son. It states that only one who was born as the seventh month dies can tip the balance of the war to the Dark Lord. At the moment, only Alice Longbottom's child definitely fits the bill, as she is due within the next month. However, your own child fits the other requirements." There was silence. "You think that's why Lily was captured." James said through numb lips. "I do." James was frozen in his seat. "He wants my child. My child might win the war for him."

"No." Lily said as she entered the room. "He will not take my baby and turn him into a monster."

"Lily!" James said with a cry of joy. He leapt from his seat to embrace his wife. "Darling, I was so worried. Where have you been?"

"Never mind that; we'll get to it later." She turned to Dumbledore. "He will not take my baby. My baby is safe. I have taken precautions of an Unspeakable sort." She quirked her lips at the ironic name for her protections. "He will not turn my baby into a monster."

* * *

He walked swiftly into the room, disregarding its other occupants. He had eyes only for the cloaked figure seated on the raised dais. As he approached, the figure held up a hand, signaling for those around him to be silent. "My Lord," he said bowing low. "I have news." The concealed man nodded.

"You are dismissed. All of you." Murmurs of "Yes, My Lord" filled the chamber as the others filed out. "Rookwood. What information have you brought me?"

"As instructed by you, I followed the Mudblood girl, the only one besides myself, Lucius Malfoy, you, My Lord, and Dumbledore who know of the prophecy. A week ago, on Saturday around two in the morning, I saw her leave her home and Apparate to the Ministry. I followed her into my own Department, the Department of Mysteries, where she was the first- at least in remembered history- to open the Locked Room, followed closely by myself. After this point, things become rather... strange. I, forgive me for my impudence, recommend that you view it for yourself." The man bowed his head.

"Because you have served me faithfully, I will forgive this once. Do not make a habit of undermining my authority." The man walked down from the dais, pulling his hood off as he did so. The absence of cloak revealed pale, aristocratic features, thick, black, almost blue hair, and crimson eyes. "Rookwood, look at your Lord." Peeling his eyes from the floor, they raked up the Dark Lord's form until they reached red orbs. As soon as their gazes connected, the Dark Lord flicked his wand, whispered, "_Legilimens_," and just like that, Rookwood's mind was no longer his own.

Rookwood gasped as the force within his mind sifted through his memories, looking for a specific set. He shoved into the forefront of his mind the memories of what had occurred during the week he was missing. As his Master saw for the first time what had transpired, Rookwood was forced to witness it again. He even felt the man's displeasure as he witnessed Rookwood succumbing to the tranquility of the chamber. Finally, after the man had seen everything, he relinquished his hold on Rookwood's mind. The newly liberated Death Eater collapsed, his knees buckling.

"Rookwood, why did you not stop her?" He asked silkily, menace evident in his tone. "Did you perhaps _want_ the child to die? Did you think he was unworthy to live, being the son of a Mudblood? Did you think your Master was wrong, that this child is truly nothing special? What were you thinking, Augustus Rookwood? Or were you thinking at all?" The Dark Lord did not wait for an answer before speaking a curse that made the kneeling man scream.

* * *

James Potter heaved a great sigh of relief as he sat down heavily on a plush red leather sofa. It had been a long day at the office with nothing interesting happening at all. In fact, the most thrilling of all the escapades of the day was when an important paper went missing from his desk and, for a moment, he forgot he was a wizard with the ability to Summon the form and panicked. Within seconds, though, he had come upon this easy solution.

Upstairs he heard rustling, and stiffened, before relaxing as he remembered that Lily was on bed rest and hadn't gone to work. It was July 31 and James smiled as he recalled an anxiety-filled day when he heard of the prophecy. A child born as the seventh month dies. But Lily wasn't due for another three weeks at the earliest. James smiled, and then felt slightly guilty for his relief. Alice Longbottom had given birth last night and the family was even now planning to go into hiding.

As James organized his limbs in preparation to stand, he heard a great crash and an agonized scream come from upstairs. Wasting no time, he grabbed his wand and Apparated upstairs to the master bedroom. He froze at the sight of his fallen wife at the door to their room. Her hair was fanned out in an untidy halo around her head, blood making it an even redder hue. Clasping his wife's arm, he pushed through the wards preventing Apparation into and out of Potter Manor, and arrived in St. Mungo's foyer within the minute.

* * *

The next few hours passed in a blur of motion, confusion, and fear for James. As soon as he arrived at the hospital, Lily was immediately taken from his arms. A male Healer held him back as he tried to follow the huddle of white robes surrounding his levitated comatose wife. He vaguely heard himself yelling something along the lines of "That's my wife!" They paid no attention to him, focused as they were on dying woman and her soon-to-be-born child.

Gently, the Healer pushed him into one of the comfortable armchairs, murmuring encouraging words. He allowed himself to be maneuvered into a sitting position, his strength giving out as his wife vanished from sight. After collapsing into the lounger, he put his head in his hands and his shoulders began to shake. The other man sat next to him and put a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it comfortingly.

Within the next few hours, his fear-induced tears ceased and he looked up at the brawny medical man who had returned. "Is she going to be alright? Will she recover?" he questioned in a hoarse voice. The man paused for a second, hesitating before telling the truth. "I don't know. If she does survive, her mentality will most likely never be the same."

"You mean, she'll be a vegetable," he said in a flat voice.

"Most likely."

"Oh, Merlin," he put his head in his hands. "What am I going to do?"

"Whatever she needs you to do." He looked up. A female Healer, one he vaguely remembered being there as Lily was escorted into a ward. "You are James Potter, I presume." At his nod, she continued. "Your wife, Lily, has given birth to a son. The stress of her fall forced her body to go into early labor. I regret to inform you that she will most likely not make it; the combination of an early childbirth and extensive brain damage was too much."

"Is she-" he broke off, unable to say it.

"She's in a magic-induced coma. I doubt she will awaken. You are allowed into the ward. There is nothing more we can do." She turned, motioning for him to follow her. He stood, the male Healer following behind. The grim procession led them through an ICU ward, glass windows displaying the severe conditions of the rooms' contents. Finally, they reached Room 12. Without having to be told, he entered the area.

Lily was lying on a pure white hospital bed, the wide frame swallowing her own small figure. Red hair was neatly fanned out behind her head. The blood had been cleared and the wound was barely a scar on her pale temple. He turned to the Healer. "She's only sleeping. Why can you do nothing?" He exclaimed incredulously.

Pity in her eyes, the Healer responded, "Her brain has shut down. Even with magic, we dare not tamper with it. One of two things will happen now. The first possibility is that she will awaken, her magic having healed her brain. A slim- but possible- prospect. A far more probable outcome is that she will simply pass on. I'm sorry."

"Don't say that. Don't say it. She's not dead yet," he snarled. He sat down in the chair next to the hospital bed, ignoring the Healers as they left. He picked up his wife's tiny, pale hand and clutched it to his chest. "Don't leave me. You can't leave me. We've barely started our lives together; don't give up on me now. I need you." He repeated the last phrase many times, his words broken with sobs. He didn't know how long he sat there before he fell asleep with tear tracks shining on his face.

When he awoke, it was to a gentle shaking of his shoulder. He looked into the sorrowful blue eyes of the female Healer and felt the cold fingers between his hands and easily pieced together what had happened while he had cried himself into the realm of sleep. His wife, his only love since first year, had passed on into the void. His face crumpled and he stood, unable to look at the _thing_ that had once been home to his wife's beautiful soul.

He stood and walked to the door. He was almost into the hall when the Healer made him pause. "Sir, what about your son?"

"He is no son of mine. He assisted in the killing of my Lily. He is a _monster_."

* * *

Ana Goldburg, Head Healer of the Children's Wing at St. Mungo's Hospital, looked down at the tiny bundle in her arms. The child was a little boy whose father had just abandoned him. She'd seen the finality in his eyes, as he more-or-less disowned his only son. The words, "He is a monster," still rang in her ears. Poor child. Less than a day old and he'd already lost both parents: one to death and the other to sorrow.

Sighing, she hefted the small burden to her other arm and went back to the nursery. As she placed the newborn in his cot, he began to stir for the first time since he'd fallen asleep directly after birth. Fussing slightly, he shook his small fist at her. She chuckled softly and picked him up again. Brushing the tuft of midnight black hair from his forehead, she looked at his closed eyelids. He still had not opened them. Concerned, she lightly stroked under his eyes in the hopes of convincing them to open. He gave a small shudder, as if he'd just been startled from a deep sleep, and his eyelids snapped open. Large, almond-shaped eyes looked up at her, their green irises outlined in a thick band of gold.

"Pretty baby," she crooned at him. "Since you don't have a name at the moment, that's what I'll call you. Little pretty baby," He gurgled one more time before slipping into sleep again. Still holding the child in her arm, Ana made her way to her office where she could write a letter to Wizarding Child Services. Reaching her destination, she laid the child down in a crib she kept in her office for the fussier infants. She sat down at her desk and pulled out a quill, a bottle full of dark green ink, and piece of parchment. On it she inscribed:

_To Whom It May Concern:_

_ Today, July 31, 1980, at 6:32 pm, a boy was born to Lily Potter nee Evans and James Charlus Potter. During the delivery, the mother died. Stricken with grief, James disowned his son. The day-old newborn is healthy and in the nursery wing at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He is in need of a guardian. _

_Yours, _

_Ana Goldburg_

_Head Healer of St. Mungo's Children's Wing_

After she had signed her name, she motioned for her owl, a Spotted Owl by the name of Bridget, to carry the letter to its destination. Shuffling her feathers dramatically, the owl spread her wings and flew out the open window. Ana watched the brown figure soar away until she could no longer distinguish her from the night sky. Then, she turned back to her desk to complete paperwork.

* * *

Jenna Masters, Head of the Department of the Care of Magical Children, opened the envelope containing the letter from St. Mungo's. She read through it once and shook her head exasperatedly. "This goes to the Wizarding Child Services Sub-Department, not the Head of the entire bloody Department," she muttered to herself, vexation evident in her tone. She stood up from her chair and went to deliver the missive to Iris Parkinson. As she approached the younger woman's office, Jenna heard her and a male voice conversing heatedly.

She peered through the blondes in the window and saw the unmistakable blonde hair of Lucius Malfoy and Iris locked together in an impassioned debate. She was unable to make out what was being said, but suddenly Malfoy turned on his heel and made for the door. She leapt away from the window, her cheeks flushing as she realized the activity she had just participated in was widely considered to be snooping. Lucius swept into the hallway, looking every bit the part of a dark pureblood. He gave her a single look, full of contempt. "Eavesdropping, were we?" he said.

"N-no."

She didn't know why the sight of him filled her with dread and fear, but there was no denying that was what she felt. "You know what they say. Curiosity killed the Crup," he replied with a sardonic smirk. She shuddered and by the way he looked at her, she knew he'd seen it. Giving a mocking bow, he sauntered away.

She took a deep breath to compose herself and entered the office. Iris's back was to the door she'd just entered and she appeared to be organizing papers into neat stacks on her desk. "Iris," she said. The woman jumped. "I have a letter for you. It was sent to me by mistake." She held out the parchment.

"Ah. Thank you. Should I read it immediately?" She asked, a hand outstretched to take it from her. Placing the letter in the pale palm, Jenna nodded. "Then I will take a look at it straightaway." She unfolded it and began reading. An obvious dismissal.

* * *

Iris breathed a sigh of relief when Jenna left. She regretted her cold demeanor, but she knew her mask would crumble soon and she wanted to be in private when it did. Merlin. Lucius had visited her again, trying to "court" her into the Dark Lord's collection of expendables. She didn't want that life: the life of a servant to an unmerciful Lord and a pawn in a game of chess.

Lucius had warned her that this was the last time the Dark Lord would _ask_. He didn't take kindly to being rejected and if she didn't agree to his demands, he would either force the Dark Mark upon her or he would kill her. Both of the prospects terrified her.

Forcing herself to abandon her thoughts and return to her job, she picked up the letter and examined it. Well, that was interesting. James Potter, the image of a Light-devoted, self-sacrificing wizard, had discarded his only son. "See how the revered fall," she said to herself, a bitter smile on her face. Resolving to go home and sleep on the little Potter- or rather Evans'- situation, she left her office.

Perhaps, if she'd been more observant, she would have noticed her earlier companion peeling himself away from the shadows and entering her office. But, she did not, her mind heavily weighed down with thoughts of the Dark Lord's proposal, her brother's current Death Eater status, and selection of a guardian for the child whose future was in her hands.

* * *

"You're certain of this?"

"I am, My Lord. I saw the letter with my own eyes."

"Then Dumbledore is indeed foolish, to think that I would not learn of the little Potter's _unfortunate_ situation. He has obviously grown too trusting in his old age, to think that I would not take advantage of this. I want you, Lucius, to gain custody of the boy. He is, after all, family."

* * *

"We have two choices open to us. One, the child may given into the care of Mr. Malfoy, a respected member of society and married to one of the boy's only willing relatives. Or we can give him back to the father who, according to Ms. Ana Goldburg, abandoned him without even giving him a name." Iris said all this without a single emotion crossing her face. Her future depended on her making a reasonable argument on Lucius Malfoy's behalf.

She thought of the recently made agreement. The deal was that if she was able to insure that Malfoy would receive custody of the child and James Potter's rights were terminated, the Dark Lord would cease his pressuring. No more visits, threats, or blackmail. She would be left alone. Trying to think only of the benefits and not of what a Dark Lord would want with a day old baby, she continued. "I think we both know who the best candidate is."

The old witch sitting across from her nodded. Griselda Marchbanks was the Wizengamot representative she had decided to consult about the matter. In order to revoke custody of a child and sign it over to another guardian, all one had to do was receive the signature of a Senior Member of the Wizengamot. Pulling out a form and quill, she handed it over to the woman who quickly signed it. There was a flash of light, signifying the transfer of custody was complete. "Thank you for your time, Madame Marchbanks." The old witch stood and Iris followed suit. She strode over to the door and held it open for her. Just as she was about to pass, she gripped Iris's arm and whispered, "Be careful," then proceeded as though nothing had happened.

The young woman's face was pale, her expression horrified. Did the wise witch know what she was doing? What she had just done? Did she suspect? Iris took deep breaths, designing her face a mask of composure.

She sat back down at her desk and beckoned an owl to attend to her. Hopping to her, the gray owl obliged. "Take this to Lucius Malfoy," she said. He took off, soaring out of her office.

_It is done. Let us be so too._

* * *

Lucius was at his home when the letter arrived. He felt immense pleasure when he saw what was written on the note. Only eight words and no signature, but it was enough. Enough to please his Lord and to possibly gain the Dark the upper hand. He smirked. Another owl flew in. It was a snowy owl that landed on his armrest, an official Ministry owl. He untied the letter from the bird's leg and quickly read through the missive.

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_Congratulations. Your request for the custodianship of James Potter's son was successful. He is currently residing with the Head Healer of St. Mungo's Children's Wing. You may retrieve him at any time. Because of his unfortunate circumstances, he is unnamed and unregistered with the Ministry of Magic. This will need to be cleared up as soon as possible._

_Hoping you are well, _

_Jenna Goldburg_

_Head of the Department of the Care of Wizarding Children_

It was official. He was the surrogate father of the prophecy child, just as his Lord had commanded him to be.

* * *

He sat patiently in an armchair in front of the fire, his familiar coiled around his shoulders. They conversed in hisses, speaking of the child who was soon to arrive. "_Master_," the snake spoke. "_When will the hatchling arrive_?"

"_Soon, Nagini. Be patient_." The snake rustled irritably. "_May I eat the one who brings it as punishment for tarrying_?" It amused the man that the snake knew larger words than some human teenagers. "_Perhaps_," he said. She settled herself to wait.

The silence of the manor was disturbed by a crack of Apparition. A man appeared in foyer, holding a small bundle. Nagini unwound herself from the seated man's torso and slithered over to the new arrival. She curled her long, thick body around the man's feet and felt him as he stiffened with fear. "My- my Lord," he said, his voice cracking. "_Stop, Nagini. He brings me a gift_."

"_The hatchling_?" she questioned, her tongue flicking out to catch the scent of the child. "_Indeed. Do not harm him_." Nagini retreated, slithered back to coil under her master's chair. Lucius straightened, gaining confidence with the lack of imminent threat. "I have done as you wished, my Lord." He paused in his speech to unwrap the child. "I present to you Altair Harrison Malfoy."

The Dark Lord stood and approached the newborn, noticing how the face was still red, indicating its youth. "He will be marked as my follower from the day of his birth." Just as his index finger touched the child's forehead, viridescent green eyes snapped open. As the Dark Lord intoned the Parselspell that would bind the child's magic to him, he noticed how the eyes flickered, awareness evident. He found it puzzling how the child did not cry, because he knew that the newly branded scar must have hurt.

"You have done well, Lucius. Take your second son home and treat him well. On his sixth birthday, I will come and begin his training. You are dismissed."

"Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord." Lucius bowed, infant still clutched in his arm, then Disapparated.

* * *

Narcissa Malfoy sat in a cushioned rocking chair by the fire, rocking and humming to her infant son, Draco. The child was whimpering slightly, having just ceased crying. She was tired and waiting for her husband to come home from his mission for the Dark Lord. She was worried at the late hour, but not frantic. Lucius had assured her that it wasn't a raid or battle, but hadn't specified what his mission entailed. She almost wished she owned one of those admittedly ingenious clocks that kept track of all the members of the family, as she knew the Weasley mother had, to keep track of her clan, but of course she could never be seen to be so irresponsible, as to lose her husband or son.

Just as she was contemplating buying one anyways, and planning where to hide it when she entertained, a tugging on her mind let her know that a Malfoy had entered the wards. Two Malfoys, actually. She stood, her dressing gown billowing elegantly around her as she entered the foyer to see and question her husband. Lucius Malfoy was already striding toward the doorway when she blocked his entryway. In his arms, he held a bundle of cloth.

"What is that?" She nodded to the package. "Narcissa..." She could tell from his tone that she was not going to like what he was about to say. "The Dark Lord requested that I gain custody of the newly disowned Potter heir. I did as I was commanded." He held out the bundle for her to see the newborn. He already had a mop of black hair and his red skin was paling. She looked at the child, then wordlessly exchanged infants. "He'll need to be fed," she said as she walked away, towards the kitchen.

"Dobby," she called. "Prepare some milk for the baby. He's hungry." By the time she reached the kitchen, it was already prepared and sitting on the table beside her earlier seat. She enjoyed sitting in the kitchen, by the hearth, for reasons unknown even to her. Even though it was unsuitable for a Pureblood housewife, she still partook in the old habit.

She placed the bottle at the baby's lips and he began to suck lightly. Her heart melted at the sight and she began her lullaby again, rocking him to the gentle rhythm. She had almost drifted off to sleep when Lucius came in. Looking up with inquisitive eyes, she silently asked him the child's name. "Altair. Altair Harrison Malfoy, the second twin." She nodded in understanding, finally comprehending why the Dark Lord had been so insistent that no one know of her son's birth.

* * *

"Draco, Altair, come here and let me have a look at the both of you."

Draco was the first to come out from under the homemade fort, his white blond hair mussed and green robes wrinkled. Narcissa sighed. Next came Altair. His hair, usually a mess, was even scruffier and his brand new robes were torn. "Honestly, boys, I don't know what I'm going to do with you. I asked you to stay out of trouble and not to mess up your outfits before the party tonight and you disobeyed. I'm very disappointed in you."

Her expression was a mix of exasperation and anger. "Come here, boys," she repeated, pulling out her wand as she spoke. "_Rugapurus_." The wrinkles on both boys' apparel vanished. "Draco, I want you to go brush your hair neatly. Altair, lets see about repairing that rip." The blonde twin, so like his father in appearance, did as directed and disappeared into the bathroom. The smaller boy approached her, chewing on his bottom lip as he walked. "I'm sorry, mummy," he whispered in a watery voice as he stood in front of her. "We were playing and I slipped and it tore. I didn't mean to, I swear, mummy." He looked up at her with teary green eyes and her heart broke.

"I know, darling, but I did say to be careful." She knelt and pulled him into a hug. "I'm not mad. I just want you to do as you're told. One of these days, you'll get into serious trouble if you don't. Do you understand?" He nodded and wiped his wet cheeks on her shoulder. "Now, let me see that tear so I can fix it. I want my little boys to look handsome for the ball tonight."

* * *

Lucius Malfoy was not usually a nervous man. In fact, he was a cool, calm, and collected aristocratic wizard whose aura of confidence was so tangible, a person could almost touch it. However, that was not the case tonight. Oh, no; not at all. Today was June 31, the twins' birthday, and there was to be a ball hosted in honor of it. But that was not what worried him.

The cause of Lucius' anxiety was a certain Dark Lord who was to arrive at any moment. Of course, the general public and, therefore, most of the party guests, had no idea there even was a Dark Lord, let alone that he would be in attendance. Until Altair was trained and ready for battle, the Dark Lord had made clear that he wanted none the wiser of his doings. Because of this, he would be under the guise of Tom Riddle, a successful author of defensive spellbooks.

Lucius was startled out of his agitated thoughts by the crack of Apparation and the sound of a houself's reedy voice. "Right this way, Mister and Missus Parkinson. The Master is waiting for guests inside the sitting room." Lucius stood to greet said guests. After he had kissed Mrs. Parkinson's hand, shook her husband's, and welcomed them to his home, he heard another crack. "Mister and Missus Zabini, right this way…"

* * *

"Come _on_, Altair. Please dance with me."

"No, Pansy. I don't want to dance. Go ask Draco. He likes those sort of things." Little Altair stuck his bottom lip out stubbornly. His mother had told him that he'd better dance tonight and he had. He'd danced with Grandma Druella, and Auntie Bella on the grownup floor and Daphne Greengrass on the children's floor. He was _done_. He had been perfectly happy sitting in a corner of the room with his best friend Blaise, playing a game of Gobstones he'd smuggled in in his pocket when Pansy approached.

"I'm going to tell your mummy you won't dance with me," she said then smirked victoriously as he stood up. Unfortunately for her, he had no intention of giving into her demands. "No you won't, Pansy, because if you do, I'll get in trouble. And if I get in trouble, it'll be your fault and I won't like you any more. I wouldn't talk to you ever again. But we're friends now because you wouldn't want to get me in trouble, would you?" He turned his big green pleading eyes on her, knowing that they couldn't be resisted.

Slowly, she shook her head. "We're friends, Altair." She hugged him and he repressed a shudder. After she let him go, she turned and walked away, presumably to find Draco. He turned off the act and spun around on his heels, anxious to get back to his game of Gobstones. As he did so, he ran face first into the black dress robes of an adult. "I'm sorry, sir."

Before he could say much more, the adult, a man Altair had never met, lifted him in one arm so that his head was level with the man's chin. With the other hand, the man smoothed away his black hair from his forehead, revealing a scar in the shape of an S. The man smirked and set him down, then crouched. "Hello, Altair Harrison Malfoy. My name is Tom Riddle and I will be your… tutor. But you must call me Master. I hope you've studied." With that, he stood and walked away.

Altair stood and stared after him, puzzled. As he continued to stare, his brother, Draco, approached. "Was that your tutor? I just met mine. It's Uncle Sev. Who was he?" Altair turned to him and said, "That was my Master. Somehow, I don't believe he is just a tutor."

"Well, enough thinking. It's our birthday, after all. In fact, may I have this dance, my lady?" He bowed to Altair. "Are you implying something, Draco?" He stumbled over the big word and blushed. "Why, yes, I guess I am, Altair." Altair pounced and pushed the taller boy against a wall and began to tickle him. However, before he had tortured him for too long, Draco reversed their positions, using his greater height to an advantage. Altair was laughing so hard his sides hurt when he caught sight of his mother's frustrated face and his future Master's blank expression. His laughter died down immediately. "Enough, Draco." His brother immediately obeyed and pushed himself away from Altair and the wall. At Draco's questioning look, he nodded toward the sight that had previously captured his attention. Then he returned to his corner with Blaise Zabini.

* * *

"You have raised him well, Lucius, Narcissa, if a little too soft. But I shall train that out of him with ease. I will be back in the morning to begin. Goodnight, Lucius, Narcissa, Altair." He nodded once to the boy hidden behind the column, then left the ballroom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Running the Race

**Author: **Runaway Sun

**Warnings: **'lil bit of violence.

**Pairings: **None.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes On the Text: **This is not my best work. I have lost interest in this story. It will never be finished. Feel free to contact me if you would like to adopt this. Btw, this isn't even a full chapter. I'd be surprised if its even 300 words.

* * *

The sound of gunshots rang out, pervading the previously still alleyway. The bullets were fired in quick succession, with no sound from either the victim or the other figure. Less than a second after the last shot ceased it's echoing, a street waif leapt from his hiding place between two dumpsters. He ran for his life, his legs pumping and the nearly unattached soles of his shoes slapping the garbage-covered pavement.

However, the man holding the gun gave a chase. He ran with speed, relying on much longer legs than the boy's. The urchin briefly wondered why the man didn't just fire, before discarding the thought and vowing to knock on wood the next time he saw some. Focusing again on the sounds of footsteps behind him, he noted that they were much closer than they were before. The boy sped the rate of his steps, racing for the spot of light up ahead that marked the exit, which was less than 200 meters away.

He was almost there when the man pounced. The boy fell with arms wrapped around his legs and a surprised scream. "Gotcha," a man's deep voice growled out. Cheek pressed against the rubbish-strewn cobblestones, he felt the man slowly get up, while still hold him down. Finally, his captor was standing one foot near his head and the other on his back. "What's a young boy like you doing out 'ere so late? You might get into trouble one of these days." He laughed, a full-belly laugh, filled to the brim with ugly intent. "But maybe you'll learn. If he can be taught, the boss will sure teach him," the man addressed the brick walls. "Gotta tell him about you anyways. It'll make it easier on all of us if I just take you to him. Can't have you talkin' to anybody about what you saw."

The waif spoke for the first time, using a trembling voice. "I-I won't tell n-nobody, sir. I swear I w-w-won't. Let me go! Please."

"Awww, the little tyke said please. I guess if I were a nice man, it would break my heart and I'd feel deep in my soul that the right thing to do would be to let you go. Too bad I'm not. Sorry, whelp." He said all this in a mocking voice. He released the pressure on the boy's back, but before he could do so much a twitch, a large hand wrapped around his bicep, which was skinny enough so that the fingers and thumb touched. The man lifted him to his feet as if he weighed nothing. Thick fingers dug into his arm. The man marched in front, dragging the slight body behind him. "Act natural," he hissed over his shoulder. At the mouth of the cave, the burly man paused and turned to the kid and got in his face, nose to nose. "I'm going to release you. If you run, there'll be a bullet in your back before you can scream for help. Got it?" The boy nodded. "Good. Let's go."

* * *

He followed the boy with his eyes as they weaved through the throngs of people. The street they traveled was packed, even though it was well passed midnight. He kept an eye out for trouble even as he trailed the slight figure. The boy stuck out a mile in his ripped faded jeans; a shirt that looked like it had once been a bright hunter green, and falling apart sneakers. The mop of black hair was dirty and unkempt and the face was covered in dirt.

They continued walking, keeping a steady pace, until they were free of the oppressive crowd. The boy stopped, as agreed, about 500 meters from the crowd. He waited a minute, making the whelp sweat, and sauntered up to him. "So you _can _follow orders. The boss'll be ecstatic; he hates disobedience. Come on." He gripped the boy's arm in a bruising hold again. He guided him further away from the multitude and down into another alley where a gray car was parked. After he had shoved the kid into the passenger seat, he wrenched his own door open and wrestled his own bulk in order to fit into the driver's seat. He thrust the key into the ignition and turned it. The car shuddered to life reluctantly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **Golden Mist

**Author: **Runaway Sun

**Warnings: **This was sort of based off of the Hunger Games.

**Pairings: **None.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes On the Text: **This is not my best work, but I love this fic. I've never seen anything like it. I may even finish it if someone likes it. Leave a review if you'd like me to finish it or PM me if you want to adopt.

* * *

I raced through the streets, pumping my legs faster than they had ever gone before, trying to avoid the squad of Aurors that was hot on my heels. Spells were fired, an array of red, blue, and golden flashes of light barely missing my head as I dodged. A green spell whipped by and I yelped, conscientious of how close I had come to almost dying. Still sprinting, I took a sharp right into a small alley. I kept running, my gasping breaths almost obscuring the sounds of my aggressors' chasing feet.

Taking a chance, I looked behind me. There were three of them, two male and one female. I didn't recognize the first man, but the female's telltale pink hair clearly identified her as Tonks, a new recruit. I sneered, before I looked to her left. Rufus Scrimgeour. His gaze was fixed on me, and as I looked, he fired off another spell. My smile faded and I ducked for the second green light of the day. I turned my eyes back to the rubbish-strewn path just in time to avoid running into a stone wall. I turned to face the Aurors and retreated until my back hit the cool rock.

Confident in his victory, Scrimgeour sauntered toward me, like a lion to his trapped prey, a smirk on his face. "Hands in the air," he said, self-satisfaction evident in his voice. Slowly, I did as I was told. "You are under arrest for treason, punishable by Azkaban." His leer grew wider. Unable to stand the Auror's smug look, I forced a taunting smile to my face. "Miss me, Rufus?" I asked. "I hear the Auror department has really gone downhill fast since I left."

His face turned red with anger. "You didn't _leave_, you traitorous mutt. You were fired, wand snapped, and kicked out of the Ministry."

"Same difference. I wouldn't have been 'kicked out' if I hadn't wanted to leave." I replied, slipping easily into a provocative character. "In fact, they offered me many more chances than they would have given anyone else. It wasn't until they realized I would never cooperate that they finally let me go." I grinned. "I had too much talent to go to waste." It had always been a tender spot for Rufus, the fact that I, a newly graduated wizard, had become Head Auror, whereas he, someone who had served for twenty years, was still second-in-command.

"Where's that talent now, boy?" he spat. "Oh, out and about," I replied with an airy wave. He took a menacing step toward me and I instinctively flinched back from ugly look on his face. He grabbed me by the collar of my ragged button-down and growled in my face. "I've got you now, boy, and I'm gonna make _sure_ you don't leave Azkaban alive." His breath was a combination of sour ale and garlic.

"Alright, Rufus. That's enough." The other man hauled the old lion off of me. "Don't interfere, Dawlish. This boy needs to be taught a lesson." I watched the interaction with curiosity. "And he will be taught, but not by you, Rufus. He'll learn plenty in Azkaban." Perfect time to butt in.

"I'm afraid I won't be accompanying you to Azkaban, _boys_. In fact, I won't be accompanying you at all." And with those words, I brought my hand down in an arc, just for show, palm glowing with a crimson light. As my hand touched the wall, it _imploded_, rock flying everywhere. I leapt away from the Aurors, almost tripping over rubble in my haste. The three figures had been thrown to the side of the alley by the force, their surprise making them as easily moved as a paper bag by the wind.

Scrambling over the wreckage, I hurried away; anxious to not be there when the back up arrived. It wasn't until I reached the exit of the alley, that I realized just how foolish I had been. Using that much power wandlessly and wordlessly would tire Merlin himself, let alone me. After the adrenaline faded, I felt the cramps in my hamstrings and a pounding ache in my head. I was doomed. I couldn't run anymore, and my vision was swimming with exhaustion. I stumbled out of the alley, a hand clapped firmly over my eyes in an effort to keep the sun from blinding me. As I blinked away the black spots that had refused to be kept at bay, I recognized where I was.

It was Vea Street, a place well known to all occupants of the Septum District, where I lived. Here were all of your everyday shops and healthcare, such as a bakery, grocery, deli, clothing store, and clinic. The clinic was where I'd spent most of my free time in the years of my exile, getting patched up after numerous fights that I'd started with my big mouth. One disparaging comment about our Minister's faults, and I would spend the next three hours at the clinic getting my nose reset. It was amazing how many people would defend the honor of a man they'd never met.

Using the last reserves of my strength, I darted into St. John's Clinic and collapsed into a waiting chair. The receptionist, Wendy, glanced up and greeted me with familiarity. Nodding to her, I sat slumped, trying to recover my breath. Finally, I recuperated enough to speak. "Water," I croaked. The red-haired receptionist stood and walked over to the gurgling machine, taking a cone-shaped cup from the dispenser beside it. After she'd filled it to the brim, she handed it over, and I downed it in one gulp. "Thank you," I rasped. Looking down at myself, I saw for the first time how dirty and bloody I was. Giving her a sideways look, I asked if I could use the shower in the back of the office. She nodded and said, "The dressings for your scrapes are under the sink. There are a couple that look pretty nasty." I nodded and thanked her.

I made my way to the back room, designed for the nurses who stayed overnight with patients, to wash. I went into the bathroom and locked the door. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I saw tired green eyes looking back at me. My skin was pale and my black hair was a mess- more so than usual. A bizarrely shaped scar in the form of a lightning bolt was the only damage to the young face in the mirror. I sighed in relief. Bandages on the face were extremely uncomfortable.

After a quick shower, I cleaned and covered my grazes, then borrowed some clothes from an unknown male nurse. The nurse was significantly larger than I, so the jeans had to be rolled and tightened with a belt. I was short, but not scrawny; just compact. The lean muscles that lined my scarred limbs prevented me from looking too skinny.

was running my hand through my hair, trying to subdue it, when I heard hammering at the door. Pronouncing my hair untamable, I went to get the door. It was only a foot open when my arm was grabbed and I was yanked into the hall. Before I could get a good look at the snatcher, I was thrown against the wall. My head hit first and I collapsed, my vision fuzzy with pain. My abductor- a man, I noted from the sound of his voice- said an incantation and thick ropes wrapped themselves around me.

The first person I saw was Petunia Dursley. Dr. Dursley was a tall woman, with a long neck, and a sour expression. She was also the only educated doctor in the entirety of Septum District. But, she was a Muggle, so that eliminated the possibility of her as my captor. My eyes flickered the two figures next to her. One was Scrimgeour, with purpling bruises and some new scars. The other was a figure I didn't recognize, and because of my ignorance, I was immediately on guard. It was a young man, probably about two years older than I, tall and pale, with neat brown hair and cruel blue eyes. He held his wand loosely, holding his body in a deceptively relaxed stance.

As our eyes connected, he strolled toward me, a smirk on his face. Then, he crouched next to my bound body, and, not turning his gaze from my face, said mockingly to Scrimgeour, "I can see why capturing him was so difficult. He must have overpowered you with sheer physical strength- I mean, just look at the size of him!- or used his exceptional invisible wand-wielding skills against you. Am I right?" Scrimgeour flushed in anger. "Look here, boy. I-" The man straightened up, and whipped his wand so that the point was aimed directly between the old lion's eyes. "If I were you, I would _think_ before I speak in that tone to my betters."

Scrimgeour went cross-eyed as he gazed at the wand tip, not willing to let it out of his sight, and nodded. The younger man lowered his wand. "I'm glad we agree. Haul him up." The grizzled man took the step that separated us and grabbed my arm, dragging me to my bound feet. Waving his wand, all of the ropes disappeared. He kept a firm grip on my arm as he towed me beside him, following the tall figure making its way down the hall.

Finally, we came to a stop in the empty lobby. The blue-eyed man pulled out a pack of cigarettes and held them out to me. "Sorry, I don't smoke," I said in confusion. "It's a Portkey," he said exasperatedly. "Grab it and hold on tight. It'll activate in two minutes.

"Auror Scrimgeour, report back to the Septum District base. I've got him from here." The old lion grimaced, upset that his prey had been stolen from him. I would have given him a taunting goodbye wave as the Portkey activated, but I was too shocked. I had assumed that the threat of Azkaban was just that- an empty threat. I hadn't truly thought they had enough evidence of my treason to send me to Azkaban, the prison that held only the most horrible criminals. Unfortunately, it seemed they did.

The Portkey deposited us in a concrete room, my companion landing gracefully and I in a heap. He laughed as I stood up. I glared at him and dusted off my oversized jeans and t-shirt. "Welcome to Azkaban, your home until we decide what to do with you." I straightened up just in time to watch him walk through a solid-looking concrete wall and disappear from sight.

After about an hour, the only headway I had made on a plan for escape was the conclusion that not only was that wall completely solid, so were the other three. I assumed the ceiling was also. I eventually gave up an sat down in a corner in the bare gray room and pulled my knees to my chest for warmth. I was wishing for the sweater I had seen in the nurse's overnight wardrobe when I remembered that it was even larger than the t-shirt and brown with orange puff balls. I shuddered and decided I like the t-shirt just fine.

For the first time since arriving in the miserable little cell, I thought about my situation. I was in Azkaban: every criminal's nightmare, terrifying even to the innocents. Azkaban was well known for its ability to make its inmates lose their minds. No one quite knew how that was accomplished, but none had ever met a survivor who wasn't completely mad. But there weren't many survivors. Only one every ten years, in fact.

When a criminal was sentenced to Azkaban, they were there for life- unless they won the Tournament. The Tournament was a cruel game, played only by the desperate inmates within Azkaban. All of the prisoners there at the time competed in it and fought to the death to survive, our "merciful" Lord's idea of compassion. I didn't know when, but I knew the next tournament was fast approaching. And I wasn't ready to let the games begin.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **A Warning Was All It Took

**Author: **Runaway Sun

**Warnings: **None

**Pairings: **None.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes On the Text: **This is actually pretty close to my best work, sad as it is. This was going to be the prologue of a story I'm currently writing and will hopefully post the first chapter of soon, but then my brain child evolved and it no longer fits the plot, but I wanted to get it out here because I worked really hard on it. This is up for adoption, as I have no further use for it.

* * *

Tom Riddle, one of the most brilliant students Hogwarts had ever seen, was alone in the library the night he found the book. It was a relatively small leather-bound textbook and stood out among its neighbors due to its pristine condition. However, that wasn't what had captured his attention. It was titled _Magick Most Evile_ and was written by Knox Brunswick, a name he recognized from a history book he'd read earlier in the year during a particularly monotonous History of Magic lesson with Professor Binns. He was known to be among darkest and most powerful wizards of the eighteenth century. It was his name and infamous reputation that caught Tom's eye as he scanned through the small selection of books that contained restricted material, the most prominent among the information being mentions of the Dark Arts.

He stood on his toes and stretched his arm up toward the tall shelf. His own height wasn't meager, but it could not compete with the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Eventually, he resorted to jumping, as he realized that even the few inches his stance could give him were not enough. (He was secretly relieved that none of his housemates were interested enough in the library to risk detention by staying after hours. If they had been, they would have held witness to his humiliating display.) His endeavor was not successful until his third leap, by which he finally managed to get a decent enough grip to yank the textbook down. Anxious to examine his find, he grasped the cover in his long, slender fingers and opened it to the title page. As he did so, it gave a little shriek, as if it were a small child whose attention had been startled away from a captivating toy by an unwelcome surprise. However, having had experience with such books, he began to softly stroke its table-of-contents page, causing it to purr.

As soon as he was certain the textbook was going to remain quiet, he swiftly made his way out of the labyrinth of books, taking long, easy strides. He turned left and then right, then left again before stopping in front of a painting of a reading witch. After forcing him to stand there for minutes that felt like eons, she finally decided to deign him with her violet-eyed gaze. She took in the sight of his livid face, then gave him a slow, lazy smirk before swinging open to reveal a small but cozy office space.

Tom had discovered – or, rather was informed of – this little niche in his third year, after Anagnosta, the portrait, had motioned him over one day after she'd witnessed him be forced out of the library by the young, stouthearted protector of books, Madame Pince. Ana, as she insisted he call her, for that was what her friends had done when she was living, informed him that when she had remodeled the library in the fourteenth century as Headmistress of Hogwarts, she had incorporated a private study space for herself within the renovation. ("I despised the children; always disturbing me from my research, they were!" she exclaimed indignantly.) She assured him that none of the castle's current occupants even knew of its existence, never mind location. Upon interrogating the portrait further, most of his questioning along the lines of why she even cared, she said only that he reminded her of herself and refused to expand further. Tom accepted the offer graciously, albeit with some suspicion. He had utilized the space ever since.

There were several perks to having a personal office within the library. First of all, he was able to stay after hours. Really, what boarding school library closed at eight o'clock? In addition, he was able to read books without checking them out and therefore recorded on his record as having read them. The majority of his professors would have a stroke – magic or no magic – if they saw the subjects that truly interested him; many believed him to be a model student. In fact, none but Dumbledore even possessed an inkling of his true character.

He sat down at the old mahogany desk and began to read, his eyes skimming page after tedious page. He was disappointed as he saw that the content was identical to that of other books he'd already studied. He was fast approaching the end of the textbook and the line of his patience when he came across a word he'd never seen before. _Horcrux_. Suddenly interested, he leaned forward, his nose hovering inches above the page, eyes carefully evaluating each word.

_A Horcrux, one of the darkest forms of magic, is a vessel in which a Dark wizard has hidden a fragment of his soul for the purpose of attaining immortality. The Horcrux is crafted so that, if anything were to happen to body of the perpetrator, the soul would still be tied to the plain of the living. While the Horcrux was safe, the soul would not move on, therefore the person who had created it would live. _  
_In order to construct a Horcrux, the soul must be split, a deed accomplished most easily through murder, though there are other ways. A spell must then be cast (The incantation and wand movements of this spell is unknown to this author.) to ground the part of soul to the receptacle. However, be warned: a Horcrux is a dangerous piece of magic and the creation of such should not be attempted. _  
_Common side effects of constructing a Horcrux are the loss of emotions and sanity. Some loose their drive to carry out the plans they had made before. Others change formerly rational plans into senseless ones, so as to match the state of their minds. Several wizards who have created a soul receptacle have found themselves at a loss of a will to live and destroyed their own Horcrux in order to end their existence. Because of the dangers to the creator himself and to those around them, it is a subject prohibited from many magical institutions and the mere study of it will be enough to provoke banishment from the countries of England, Germany, and Switzerland. _

Tom read the paragraph twice, storing away the information in his mind, and vowed to research the subject more thoroughly. He dismissed the cautionary counsel, his arrogance persuading his ego that the danger only applied to those who were less powerful than he. He then read the remainder of _Magick Most Evile_, and was frustrated – though unsurprised – to find no other mentions of a Horcrux. He would have to do some in-depth research on Horcruxes, along with that of other methods of attaining immortality he'd come across earlier in the year.

Tom had been searching for a means of immortality since third year, the year of the incident. It occurred the summer after second year. Tom had always been a solitary figure at the orphanage; he was never seen playing with the other children or even by himself. Instead, one could always count on him to be sitting by the warm stove, a book propped in his lap. Large novels, small folktales, muggle books, magical books, newspapers and magazines: no printed material was safe from Tom's insatiable yearning for knowledge. None of the other inhabitants of South Aberdeenshire Orphanage made any comments, fearful as they were of Tom's wrath; they had felt the consequences of his ire many times in their younger years.

However, that summer, there was a new arrival named Dirk. Dirk was an older boy – the matron estimated him to be around fifteen or sixteen – and he had been transferred from another orphanage due to his inability to avoid fights. He was bitter, jealous, and cruel – the perfect bully; to his eyes, Tom was an easy target because of his lack of friends. Tom was aware of the ward that Dumbledore had erected around the children's shelter that would alert him if magic were used in the area. (The Trace hadn't been invented until Tom's fourth year.) In view of that fact, Tom was left defenseless against the older boy's fists and taunts. The other children soon joined in his torment, forgetting their fear of the horrors they had all once suspected Tom of committing.

In wasn't until midsummer that the bullying truly got out of hand. In order to evade the other children and avoid losing control of his temper and magic, Tom had taken up running. He ran everyday for hours and the townspeople easily recognized him as he sprinted by. Some even offered him drinks, which he politely accepted with a faked smile. The townsfolk adored him.

It was raining the day the older boys ambushed him. Tom had been running for three hours, and his clothes were soaked through. He had been looking forward to finishing his Grimm's Tales book, amused by the similarity to some of the children's stories of the wizarding world. It was this he was thinking of when he slowed from a jog to a walk in front of the iron fence of the orphanage. Immersed as he was in his own thoughts, he didn't hear Dirk until it was too late. The older boy pounced, his brawny body crushing Tom's beneath 193 pounds of muscle. A hand covered his nose and mouth, preventing him from crying out, as well as hindering the smaller boy's breathing. His vision was filled with black spots when the large, grubby hand was finally lifted from his face. He was too busy gasping for air to struggle as other hands turned him over and forced him to his knees.

Tom finally calmed his breathing and looked up through his wet fringe to see Dirk standing over him, a sneer plastered to his wide face. He lunged at the older boy, but was prevented from swinging a fist at him when a boy kneeling behind him wrapped his arms around Tom's torso. Dirk laughed, and then resumed his sour expression. "Ya thinks yer so much better'n us, don' ya, Tommy-boy? Always goin' off on ya own, too good fo' the rest o' us, ain't that right? Well, sorry to knock ya off yer high horse, boy, but you ain't. Yer nothin' more'n a stupidly smart little boy whose own mummy didn't want 'im. She prob'ly died just to get away from ya." All the boys erupted into laughter. Tom's face contorted in fury and he couldn't help but to retort. "At least I am not so idiotic I am unable even string two correct sentences together. Nor am I so ugly that the matron shipped me off to another orphanage to avoid looking at my hideous maw."

Dirk gave a yell then swung at Tom's face; the blow connected with a sickening crunch. Tom whimpered as blood began to pour from his nose. Yells of "Give it to 'im!" and "Yeah, Dirk! Atta boy!" came from the surrounding boys. Gaining confidence, Dirk swung again, then again and again. Tom was thankful for the rain that masked his tears. He closed his eyes for the first time when he heard the words: "Hey, Dirk, let me have a punch." He recognized the voice as the eldest of the orphanage, a massive boy called Clout for good reason. Tom had braced himself but apparently not enough. The unforgiving blow collided with his temple and his vision went dim. He vaguely recognized the texture as being that of a rock. He became numb to the following punches and the jeers were silent compared to the ringing in his ears. Gratefully, he slipped into darkness.

Tom had almost died that day. While he was unconscious, one of the boys had gone for a baseball bat after growing bored of using rocks and sticks. The matron, who forced out of the boy his reasoning, intercepted him and confiscated the sporting equipment. Upon discovering Tom's misfortune, she hastened outside and began to cry at the sight of his crumpled and bloodied body. The boys had obviously moved on from damaging his face to the rest of his physique. As soon as the boys caught sight of the matron's large figure, they scattered. She ran to the fallen body, paying no mind to the dispersing children. She hugged the boy's head to her chest, careful not to touch the bleeding wound on the side of his forehead. Looking up from the battered face of the boy, she saw Shelly, one of the younger girls, standing in front of her, staring. "Don't just stand there, girl! Ring for an ambulance!" she screeched, her voice panicked.

The ambulance came and "just in time too," said one of the doctors. Tom was on the edge of death. It would be a miracle if he didn't suffer brain damage for the rest of his life, they told her. The matron, Mrs. Cole, had mixed feelings about the boy. She knew all of the other children had been terrified of him at one point, but she also knew that more recently he had been the innocent victim of their bullying. Mrs. Cole was a good woman who sometimes got a little too drunk and judged a little too early, but who nevertheless wanted nothing but the best for others. She wouldn't wish death nor pain on the evilest man God ever blew breath into, so she prayed for a miracle. And she got one.

Tom came back to the orphanage just three weeks after the incident. He became even more somber, not bothering to try to charm her, as he used to. The children avoided him, ashamed of their part in his hospitalization and suddenly remembering the paranormal punishments that Tom could easily dole out. Dirk had been moved to yet another orphanage and was threatened that if there were any more episodes of violence, he'd find himself living on the streets.

Tom never forgave, nor did he forget. He went back to Hogwarts for his third year and studied that much harder. When he encountered a boggart for the first time, he was unsurprised to see it take the form of his own lifeless body. That was when his obsession to find the secret of immortality began. He was determined to become the greatest sorcerer of all time, and to be great, he could have no weakness, no fear. He would annihilate all possibility of death, he vowed.

* * *

Two years after he'd found the book, Tom had exhausted every other printed material mentioning Horcruxes, all of which would land him in Azkaban for possession alone. _Darkest Magicks_, _Horribilis_ _Incredia_, and _Artemisia Pulgarsy: A Biography of an Insane Witch_ were his primary resources. However, he had still been unable to uncover the incantation of the spell needed to create a Horcrux. Tom glanced down at the glittering blood-red stone on his finger and smirked. As soon as he learned that spell, his quest for immortality would be over.

He was drawn out of his musings by the ringing of a small golden clock standing upon Professor Slughorn's desk. "Good gracious!" the man said, his gravelly voice grating on Tom's eardrums. "Is it that time already? You'd better get going, boys, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow, or it's detention. Same goes for you, Avery." One by one, the other boys stood up from where they had been seated on the plush, green carpet in front of Slughorn's desk and filed out, but Tom stayed behind, an idea having just struck him. Slughorn heaved his massive girth out of an armchair and carried his empty wine glass over to his desk. He was just about to award himself with a refill of his favorite drink, Elderflower Wine, when Tom made a very obvious movement, aiming to gain his Potions professor's attention. Slughorn looked around, surprised to see his favorite student still standing there.

"Look sharp, Tom; you don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours and you, a prefect…" he said, his jowls jiggling as he spoke. Tom nodded, but continued standing there.

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away…" Slughorn said good-naturedly. Tom took a deep breath, knowing that this conversation could end with either his knowledge of the spell or a lifetime in an Azkaban cell.

"Sir, I wondered what you know about… about Horcruxes?" he said in a hesitant voice.

Slughorn gave a start and stared at him, thick fingers gripping the stem of his glass tightly.

"Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?" the professor asked, his tone making it very clear that he knew it was not schoolwork.

"No, sir." Tom saw no point in lying about such a simple statement to the older Slytherin. After all, they were sorted into the same house for a reason. "Not exactly, sir. I came across the term while reading and I didn't fully understand it," he said.

"No . . . well . . . you'd be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that'll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom; that's very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed," said Slughorn. Tom, of course, had figured that out long ago. In an attempt to weasel out more information, he decided to lay down the flattery thick. It had always worked on the professor before.

"But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you – sorry, I mean, if you can't tell me, obviously – I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could – so I just thought I'd ask… " Tom was rather proud of himself for that bit of ego-swelling adulation. It was a prime specimen of his masterful manipulation, his exceptional ability of wheedling information out of even the most reluctant of people.

"Well," said Slughorn, not looking at Tom, but fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of crystallized pineapple. "Well, it can't hurt to give you an overview, of course… just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul." Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He had honestly thought that Slughorn, being from a long line of Dark wizards, would recognize the similarity in their magic and be more forthcoming. Alas, it seemed it was not to be.

"I don't quite understand how that works, though, sir," said Riddle, his voice carefully controlled.

"Well, you split your soul, you see," said Slughorn, "and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form..." Slughorn trailed off, his forehead crumpling. "Few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable."

Tom was unable to hide his longing and a greedy expression appeared on his face. "How does one spilt their soul?" he asked.

"Well," said Slughorn uncomfortably, "you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation; it is against nature."

"Yes, yes," Tom said impatiently. "But how does one _do_ it?"

Slughorn looked at him oddly but replied nonetheless. "By an act of evil – the supreme act of evil: by committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: He would encase the torn portion –"

"Encase? But how–?

"There is a spell," Slughorn interrupted in a low voice. "Tom, this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, is it not? Purely academic…" the normally more forthcoming professor inquired, a sudden suspicion having just occurred to him.

"Yes, sir. Of course," Tom replied quickly. The professor examined him closely, eyes searching .

"…I don't believe you, Tom," Slughorn said, his mask sliding away. Gone was the vain man Tom was used to. In his place stood a person of confidence and intellect. Tom stiffened, wary, mindful that this was a different Slughorn than that which he'd encountered before. "I don't think this is a mere curiosity. Otherwise, I think you would have been satisfied with my earlier explanation. I think you've perhaps thought about making one for your–"

"_Obliv_–"

"_Protego!_ _Expelliarmus!_" The jet of blue light flew back towards Tom, forcing him to duck to avoid being hit by his own spell. As he did so, his wand was yanked from his fingers, only to land in Slughorn's decidedly thicker ones. "Tom, Tom, Tom. You still have much to learn."

"Give me back my wand, Professor," Tom said dangerously. Slughorn laughed, his earlier discomfort having vanished with his façade. "And have you kill me? I think not."

Tom stood in front of his Potions professor, fuming. He knew that no amount of charm would get him out of this mess. He had hoped Slughorn's ego would overcome the man's Slytherin instincts. It appeared as though he had judged wrongly.

"Tom, tell me why you want to create a Horcrux." There was a thick silence, during which time Tom's face was stony. "Come now, Tom, I am a highly accomplished wizard holding two wands. You, on the other hand, are a defenseless boy who hasn't even finished his last year of schooling. I am more than capable of forcing an answer out of you, but I'd prefer it if you freely gave one."

Tom's expression remained unchanged. "Alright, m'boy, I suppose we have come to the end of your stay at Hogwarts. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to remain here until the Aurors arrive." He pointed his wand at the door, locking it. "Speaking of them, I suppose I'll have to make a Floo call. Wait here, would you, Tom?" he said jovially, knowing that the boy would stop him from entering his personal office. He was not disappointed.

"Professor."

"Yes, Tom?"

"I- I want to make a Horcrux," he admitted, aware that the older man had already discerned that.

"I am aware. I want the know your reasoning."

Tom took a deep breath. "Because I am a great wizard, a powerful one. I don't believe there is good or evil in the world. There is only power and those too weak to seek it. The power I seek is that of immortality."

Slughorn laughed uproariously. "That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard," he said, wiping tears from his eyes. "Power and those too weak to seek it…" he repeated. Abruptly, his demeanor became somber. "However, I understand where you might have gotten that idea. In a warped way, I suppose it's true. There aren't good and evil people in the world: only good and evil actions. The power we have is to choose what actions we take." Here, he paused, staring at his fingers and the gold bands adorning them.

"As for immortality, there is no such thing. A Horcrux can't make you immortal because it cannot give you invincibility. If a person were dead-set on killing you, all he would have to do is hunt your Horcrux down, destroy it, and finish you off." Tom was dismayed by his professor's derision and retorted. "Who said anything about a single Horcrux? I, the greatest of this generation's wizards, will push the boundaries of magic and succeed where others have failed."

At this, Slughorn was incensed. "Have you not heard a thing I have said, boy? A Horcrux will do nothing for you if someone truly wants to dispatch you. Three, seven, or even thirteen Horcruxes will succumb to the same fate as a single one. What is so important that you feel as if you must live forever for, even at the risk of your own soul?"

"The Ministry is corrupt; it needs replacing. I could –"

Slughorn sneered at the weak justification. "Tom, do not take me for a fool. I know you're afraid. You are absolutely terrified at the thought of dying. I can see it in your eyes."

Time stood still as the professor and student stared into each other's eyes. Finally, Tom ducked his head: a silent confession.

"I suspected as much. Tom, tell me, why Horcruxes? Is there no other way to achieve what you seek than to permanently damage you soul?"

"No method I have found is as competent as a Horcrux."

Then my respect for you as a scholar and researcher has been greatly diminished." Tom recoiled as if slapped. "I will make a deal with you, Tom. You will swear an unbreakable oath not to create even a single Horcrux, and no one shall ever hear of this conversation. In addition, I will do everything in my power to help for the remainder of your time at Hogwarts. If you do not agree, I will inform Dumbledore of this illuminating little chat, and he will do as he wishes with the information. What is your decision, Tom?"

"You haven't given me much of a choice, now have you, Professor?" he said bitterly.

"Ah, but I _did_ offer you one. There is always a choice, Tom. You just have to know you can live with the consequences of the path you choose," he said somberly. A minute later, however, his face visibly brightened. "Now then, because we lack a Bonder, we'll have to do this in a rather unorthodox way. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you are right-handed, are you not?" At Tom's nod, he continued. "I'll need you to stick out your left hand, palm facing up. Yes, yes; just like that." Slughorn made a slashing motion with Tom's wand over the palm. A thin, shallow cut appeared. Tom hissed in pain. The professor copied the ritual onto his own hand, and then placed the limb on top of his student's. Offering the phoenix feather wand back to its owner, he grinned when Tom quickly snatched it out of his hand. "Point your wand at our hands." Slughorn nodded approvingly as his student did so then followed suit himself. "Good. Now, then, Tom, do you swear not to create any amount of Horcruxes… on pain of death?"

"I do." A golden strand of magic wrapped around their overlapping limbs.

"Do you swear to find a different method of immortality with my assistance on pain of death?"

"I do." A second one followed.

"And do you, Tom, swear to replace the corrupt Ministry and create a new, stronger government for the wizarding world on pain of death?"

Tom jerked like a puppet on a string, staring at him with incredulity, before taking a deep breath. "I do." The third and final thread of magic clasped itself onto their hands, giving it a golden translucent shell before melting into the skin. "It is done."

* * *

"And Slytherin House is proud to announce that Tom Riddle, Hogwarts' top student for four years running, has achieved an Outstanding on every one of his N.E.W.T. examinations, the first student to ever do so from Slytherin. As a result, Mr. Riddle has been awarded with a coveted position within the Ministry. We wish him all the luck of Merlin as he continues his career a politician. May you achieve everything you endeavor to do, Tom."

"Thank you, Professor Slughorn. I will." Then, under his breath, he said in a voice so low only the Potions Professor Horace Slughorn could hear him, "On pain of death."


End file.
